


The Lesson

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 21:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15519276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: Sam had been cursed to lose everything that had ever mattered to him, but maybe his life wasn’t completely over.





	The Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> Wincest & J2 Writing Challenge July 2018  
> loracine vs Herbologystudent252  
> Prompt: cursed to lose everything

Out of all of the things that had changed in Sam's life, he missed his wingtips the most. It wasn't just the garish orange color of the prison-issued shoes that he disliked. It was their paper thin soles that bothered him the most. The canvas shoes provided about as much support as a cheap pair of slippers. He missed the sound of leather soles on the brown marble flooring in the courthouse lobby, that happy wet slap following his every step. The sweet sound of money on the soles of his shoes.

It had only been a month, thirty days since his sentencing. He still wasn't used to waking up in a concrete box listening to his roommate bitch from the bottom bunk and bracing himself for another day. Breakfast had been uncharacteristically quiet, just a couple hundred utensils scraping in unison against melamine plates. The mood was somber. For many, today would be a chance for freedom. The parole board had arrived and the first hearing would be taking place shortly. Sam desperately wanted to hear his name called, but he knew it would be years before it would happen.

While some of the inmates were separated to await their scheduled hearings, others were offered time on the prison phones. With a shaky hand, Sam dialed a number he knew by heart, even though he hadn't dialed it in years.

The gruff, "Hello," he heard after the call connected was deeper, older than he remembered. The weight of years of tobacco and alcohol had taken a toll on the other man's voice.

"Dad," he began tremulously. They hadn't spoken in quite some time and he wasn't sure of his welcome. "It's Sam," he added after a moment's pause.

"Sam? That you? Why the hell are you calling from a prison," his father asked all in one rush of words. He didn't sound angry that Sam had called, though. It was a good start.

Sam pursed his lips, really not wanting to have this conversation over the phone, and, yet, he'd run out of options. His coworkers and friends had abandoned him before the trial had concluded. Five years. His sentence had been five years and not one person to stand beside him to keep him from falling into the void that had opened up beneath his feet when the verdict had been read out loud. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said softly. Then, he began to talk. He told his father about the case, his very first case that had gone so very wrong. He told him about the client Sam had been so confident was innocent. He haltingly told him about the guilty verdict handed down by a jury that had seemed to steadily grow colder as the prosecution made its case.

Dad was quiet when he'd finished.

"Wrap it up, Wesson," the corrections officer told him. It was the one-minute warning, and the only warning he would get before the connection was cut.

"I've got to go," Sam said.

"I don't know what you want me to do with this, son," Dad said with a sigh. He sounded tired.

"Yeah," he agreed. He didn't know either.

The cell block was an older design. Three stories of eight by five cells with doors made from thick steel bars arranged in a half circle, curled around a small space dotted with a few worn concrete picnic tables. The sheer amount of steel and concrete in this place defied imagination, his imagination, at least. It had all the warmth of a Vermont winter and the pale blue walls of the hallways in the rest of the facility did nothing to improve the atmosphere.

Sam's cell was in the second row, almost exactly centered between the stairs on either side. Very few inmates managed to avoid joining one of the prison gangs, but so far Sam had been successful. That was partly due to his cellmate, a repeat offender whose first stint inside had been sometime during the Korean War. The man had taken him under his wing on Sam's very first night. He was big about seeking redemption, his bible as worn as the picnic tables below.

Sam reached the block, ascended the stairs, and ducked into his cell before he could be intercepted. He expected the find Ellison's salt and pepper head bent over his latest find from the prison library. What he found, however, was a man roughly half Ellison's age, long legs sprawled down the length of the bottom bunk.

"Howdy," the man drawled, his voice a low growl that took all the playful out of those two syllables.

Sam blinked. "Umm, where's Ellison," he asked. That sounded far less confident than he was going for.

"I'm your new roomie, meat," he informed him with a grin.

Sam stood in the doorway, torn between getting to know the man and running for the nearest corrections officer to beg for another cell assignment.

"Name's Dean," he added with a grin. "I think we're gonna get along fine."

"Nice to meet you, Dean," Sam replied, holding his hand out in greeting. He ended up tucking the long ends of his hair behind his ear, instead, when Dean made no move to meet him halfway for a friendly handshake.

Dean looked stupidly pretty with his arms crossed beneath his head, displaying his pecs and biceps nicely.

-

Sam had found the hex bag within hours of posting bail. He had assumed that its destruction would solve all his problems. It had gone up in a cloud of muddy brown smoke, leaving him giddy with relief. He hadn't even considered that the effects of the spell would last beyond its physical representation, but the curse had already run its course. Perhaps, if he had taken a look at the thing before burning it, he would be able to identify the curse that had been cast and find some way to counteract it.

He heaved a big sigh as he dropped his tray on the table and took a seat. This evening's fare consisted of a slice of meat brick, soggy corn, dry chalk bread, and bitter green mush. The only thing that looked even remotely appetizing on the tray was the child-sized carton of apple juice.

Dean thumped down beside him, shoveling a healing spoonful of green mush into his mouth before he was fully seated. "Roomie," he greeted cheerfully. It had been a week since Ellison had disappeared and the two of them had negotiated an amicable, if not friendly, arrangement. Dean seemed to enjoy pestering Sam every free moment he could find.

Sam nodded as he tried not to gag on the corn while he chewed.

Dean nudged him with his shoulder, warmth seeping through the rough cotton of the prison garb.

Sam tried to ignore the answering curl of warmth in his belly. It wasn't Dean's fault that Sam would love to get his tongue on every inch of his freckled skin. Sam had lost everything that had ever mattered to him. He would never practice law again. Years of school studying till he felt like his brains were ready to start dripping out through his ears, followed by years spent being treated like a backwater mud-monkey with even less sense than the boss' pet Shih Tzu, and he'd watched it all disappear like his life had been nothing more than a smoke screen to be pulled aside. It had been devastating. Yet, one week listening to Dean's soft snores in the bunk below his own and he was starting to think that, perhaps, his situation wasn't all bad. Freckled lining and all.

Dean's next words were heartfelt, "You look like shit."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, well, you snore," he replied.

Dean hummed as he swirled a bit more of the green onto his spoon and swallowed it down.

Sam tried very hard not to imagine those pink lips wrapped around certain parts of his anatomy as the other man licked his spoon clean. He cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on his own food.

-

Sam was bleeding. Blood was dripping out of a cut on his eyebrow and it hurt like a bitch when it got into his eye. He pressed a wad of toilet paper to the wound and hissed at the sting.

"Looks like you got to yourself into quite a jam," Dean remarked. He'd followed Sam into their shared cell and was not hovering at the doorway, looking protective.

Sam was not interested in rehashing the enormity of his misfortune. "You got a towel," he asked.

Dean shook his head, eyes darting to the walkway outside the little concrete room. "You need the infirmary. C'mon, I'll walk you," he said.

Sam didn't put up much of a fight. He was too stunned by the gentle hands Dean used to pull him to his feet and guide him through the other inmates towards the guard posts. The looks he was giving everyone else, though, were a clear warning to stay away and they were carving a path through the crowd.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam mumbled after he was seated in the exam room.

Dean's fingers lingered on the side of his face. "Yeah, well, you're mine," he replied softly.

-

Sam wasn't surprised when the inmate that had knocked him over in the shower got his own spot in the infirmary for a few days. He was given a wide berth for a while after that. Any chances that he'd make another friend inside seemed to have evaporated.

Sam's father didn't answer any more of his calls.

Sam's former coworkers had already forgotten all about him.

It wasn't all bad, though. He finally found out what Dean's whiskey-smooth voice sounded like while the other man was coming apart around the part of Sam that was buried deep inside him.

When it was over, he wanted to do it again.

Dean eagerly complied.


End file.
